Post by Damien Blaze on Dec 17, 2008 8:45:54 GMT 1
Damien put a leg out to the side, tilting his body and stretching the muscles located near the groin. He moved from leg to leg, giving thirty seconds to ease to cold morning stiffness from his bones, and to get a small amount of blood flowing and to make it easier to move and work. He grabbed the wrist of his gloves, having pulled them from his under-used bag, shaking them a little to remove the dust. He pulled them onto his hands, stretching his fingers through the fingerless holes and making a fist, doing the same with the other hand. It felt good. It had been far to long since he had used them, having done maximum training during his disappearance, but without the use of his older tools. He stretched his arms, pulling his left one across his chest and doing the same with his right.
He stood in the middle of a small clearing, one he had hunted for earlier in the week. He was to spend the weekend in solitude, or at least with minimal outside activity. He was to train. To work his muscles as he did every morning, only this time to an extreme- in combat with the weather. He needed it. His body craved it, day in and day out. He was in his prime, the peak physical condition his body had ever felt. He wasn't through, he would attain more. His muscles were tight, toned, and large- far bigger than they were when he left. He seemed to be made of stone, but that was proved to be the opposite once he began to move. His body, while large, had developed an unnatural speed, his movements taking on a ethereal quality. While he may not be the quickest guy who ever lived, his fists and feet were far faster, his kicks and punches steadier and smoother and more developed then they had ever been.
He unzipped the green sweater that was held over his torso, pulling it off to reveal a black T-shirt, his breath coming out in a fog. His car, nearly thirteen miles east, was covered with a tarp, kept on lock-down until his return on Sunday evening. His legs were kept hidden beneath a Black Gi, his tight, toned muscles flexing a little as he shook his body loose. He needed this. A tent, set up behind him, would be his only solace, his comfort- a time when he could relax, read, meditate- when he wasn't in his daily eight hour training sessions. It was said that working your body to excess wasn't good for you, and he believed it, so he would split his training, taking an hour break every four hours. While this may not seem long, he had a large cooler, carried in on his shoulders, filled to the brim with water, forty-five bottles in all.
He placed his feet directly next to each other, bending over and placing his hands flat on the ground as he stretched. He looked up, checking the position of the sun. Ten in the morning, or around it. Right on time. He would be done by seven that night, and would have time to relax and watch the stars. He stood back up, cracking his neck from side to side. Time to run. Sure, he had just hiked for almost thirteen miles, but he felt ansy to get things started, and had taken a half hour out to set up camp. He Started, looking around himself to make sure he would know how to get back before beginning. He took off, a steady pace coming easily to him as he stepped over logs, the flat, smooth earth under him moving beneath his feet. He came to a river, not slowing down but instead running up it, alongside it, looking down at his watch to see how far he had come. Two miles.
He turned back west, having jogged a little back the way he had come. He checked the sun, the trees, the earth, noticing some familiar looking trees from his small, one mile scouting trip the previous weekend. He wasn't in the mood to get lost, and had therefore checked on this place before coming. He was glad to have found it, and was glad for the solitude, but wouldn't lie and say a training partner, or even small amounts of company wouldn't be nice. He found his camp in short order, a chipmunk darting away quickly as he ran into the camp, only slightly winded. He wouldn't stop now. He rolled his shoulders, a large scar on his arm barely being seen on bottom of his right shoulder near the arm, the pain of its making still fresh in his mind, the scar moving up his shoulder and down across his back, stopping about two and a half feet down it. That was another story for another time, however, and he wouldn't contemplate it on his weekend away.
He got down, placing his hands shoulder width apart, the weight easily being supported by his large, strong arms. Down and up. One. Down and up. Two. Down and up. Three. Classic push ups. He did them slowly but surely, his muscles starting to slightly feel the burn after reaching fifty. Not done yet. Down and up. Down and Up. He came to his feet, a solid and strong one hundred under his belt. He rolled his shoulders once more. He walked to the center of the clearing, breathing deeply and smoothly as the day began to warm up. His only clear day for the weekend. He slid his right foot back smoothly, placing his left foot forward, slightly bent, his right fist clenched near his chin as his left was held a little further forward. He twisted his hips and torso, whipping around his right leg for a solid kick to his invisible partners head. He brought it back, doing it again and again, twenty times, getting the feel for it.
He reversed the position, this time his left leg back, and did twenty kicks that way. Then he ran for a tree, his mind working sporadically, taking whatever move came to his mind as he fought and struggled with his mental foe. He ran for a tree, taking two steps up it and spinning one hundred and eighty degrees to the left, a classic right footed Roundhouse to the head. Not a move he would generally use in combat, but good to work the muscles and to keep your mind refreshed and at both of they're maximums. He landed softly, his right leg forward, his body turned to the side. He wasted no time, standing to his feet and snapping out a right heel kick. He placed his foot, after the kick, down approximately two feet from his left and a little back, his hands opening up and facing outward, palms toward his enemy, hands slightly relaxed.
He began working defensive combos, blocking quickly and efficiently, his left hand blocking a punch, his right a knee, constantly moving, not just going through the motions but effectively fighting his mind, if such a thing were made sense to the reader. His mind worked quicker than his body could, and so the blows of his imaginary foes would always be above the capability of his motor functions. While to some, it may seem like he could easily block and guard his "foe", it was not so, his brain separating his material fists from his imaginary ones, so his foes, in a sense, were real. It was a technique taught to him by a martial artist his father had recommended, an older man, though graced with youth and flexibility. This technique, while difficult, worked both your body and mind, causing you to have a strength in both areas that your enemy didn't know you could possess.
He stopped, two hours in, a sheen of sweat pouring over his body. He grabbed the first water-bottle, slightly Luke-warm. It wasn't wise to drink Iced-water while your body was at such a peak of strain, your blood running hot and suddenly being introduced to it having been pronounced only "slightly dangerous." He drank half the bottle, gasping as he set it back on top of his cooler. He stepped over to a bare tree, the limbs strong but lifeless, grabbing the branch that was nearly a foot above his head. He gripped it do the back of his hands were on the same side of his face, opposite of how the classic pull-up was done. He brought himself up, breathing quickly and deeply as his muscles cried out. It felt amazing. It was Ecstasy for him, his mind constantly consumed by fighting and training, this session dedicated to himself, a relaxing way of working his body, no stress. Fifty chin-ups later, Damien released himself, hands on his hips, his body covered in dirt and sweat.
He laid down on his back, hands behind his head, feet planted. He used his stomach muscles to pull his body up, his elbows touching his thighs before he went back down, not letting his back fully lay out before coming back up into a sit-up. He did these quickly, not wanting to keep his mind constantly on it, instead wanting to move on to the fist work out. One hundred. He came to his feet, his body groaning in pain. He grabbed his water-bottle, taking another quick swig before placing it down again and stepping to the nearest tree. He held up his fists, elbows in, his right hand near his chin in a fist, his left hand out a little more as he rotated his arms at the elbows, keeping good circulation and air. Left punch. Bam. Right punch. Bam. Stiff jabs to the tree, the defiant wood shaking its leaves in protest at being used in such a way, or so it seemed to Damien.
He moved through one hundred jabs each arm, a full set of two hundred. He then worked on his hooks, not whipping back his arm into an over-exaggerated hay-maker, but keeping the hook close to his body, about twenty inches out In front of him, the twist of his torso and the close proximity to his body only adding to the effect and combination of both speed and power. He did another set of two hundred, one hundred each arm, before stepping back out into the clearing, and working for the next hour and a half on uppercuts, combo blows, judo and ju-jit-su throws, as well and quick take-downs and easily landed maneuvers. Four hours. He stopped, gasping as sweat poured from every possible pore in his body. He drank what was left of the first bottle, not wanting to water-log his body too much.
He stepped inside his tent, retrieving another small cooler that did have ice in it. He placed a small rag from his back inside for ten seconds, retrieving the cold item and applying it to his neck. Against what he would normally do, as it had been stated early with the water-bottles, but he needed a strong cool-down. It felt good, a small moan coming from his lips. He sat on a sleeping bag made for his comfort, a small flashlight to the left and a rifle in its case, just in the happen-stance he felt the need to hunt. He had a book, "Peace for the mind, war for the soul" by TJ Anvon, as well as a few apples and dried fruits. He looked down at his watch after a period of relaxation and book reading, sighing as he was three minutes late for his next set.
He stood, stretching his muscles before cracking his neck again. He was looking forward to it, and started right in, beginning again the first set he had done this morning. Four hours later, he was brutally exhausted, almost to the point of over-exertion but still able to move his aching limbs. He lay on the ground gasping, eyes taking in the now-fully viewable stars. He groaned, pushing himself to his feet and stumbling over to a tree, mustering up his strength to climb it halfway and view the world around him. It was amazing, the stars and moons casting a cold, Grey glare over the trees. He chuckled a little to himself, hardly believing he had time away. He thought a little about who he would want here if he had a choice. His thought his first option would be Tai Yang, a perfect opponent to pit himself against for training. But his thoughts wandered back to a blind female he had met on the beach, a person whose name he had forgotten but had heard plenty of, especially regarding a guy named Keith.
Damien wasn't without his stalker allies, he had one or two, and he just wished he could have a moment to offer his assistance to her, such as it was, and to possibly make a friend, which he had yet to do. Another would be that Principal, Katsumoto, or Perhaps the old Hircine Captain, Kyukaku. Again, both good training partners- the first one to beat the shit out of, the second one to simply train with. Damien didn't like this Shuya, and could tell they would be at odds in the future. He sighed, climbing down the tree and making his way back over to his tent. Eight o'clock. Time for shut-eye. Tomorrow would be a busy day.
And he would Enjoy every minute of it.
OOC(( If you want to Enter, you may, whether you be someone he doesn't know or a name he mentioned. i have no problem with it. If, after three days this goes un-posted in, I'll make my Next-day post. Forgive any grammatical errors, just know that i tried me best
))
He stood in the middle of a small clearing, one he had hunted for earlier in the week. He was to spend the weekend in solitude, or at least with minimal outside activity. He was to train. To work his muscles as he did every morning, only this time to an extreme- in combat with the weather. He needed it. His body craved it, day in and day out. He was in his prime, the peak physical condition his body had ever felt. He wasn't through, he would attain more. His muscles were tight, toned, and large- far bigger than they were when he left. He seemed to be made of stone, but that was proved to be the opposite once he began to move. His body, while large, had developed an unnatural speed, his movements taking on a ethereal quality. While he may not be the quickest guy who ever lived, his fists and feet were far faster, his kicks and punches steadier and smoother and more developed then they had ever been.
He unzipped the green sweater that was held over his torso, pulling it off to reveal a black T-shirt, his breath coming out in a fog. His car, nearly thirteen miles east, was covered with a tarp, kept on lock-down until his return on Sunday evening. His legs were kept hidden beneath a Black Gi, his tight, toned muscles flexing a little as he shook his body loose. He needed this. A tent, set up behind him, would be his only solace, his comfort- a time when he could relax, read, meditate- when he wasn't in his daily eight hour training sessions. It was said that working your body to excess wasn't good for you, and he believed it, so he would split his training, taking an hour break every four hours. While this may not seem long, he had a large cooler, carried in on his shoulders, filled to the brim with water, forty-five bottles in all.
He placed his feet directly next to each other, bending over and placing his hands flat on the ground as he stretched. He looked up, checking the position of the sun. Ten in the morning, or around it. Right on time. He would be done by seven that night, and would have time to relax and watch the stars. He stood back up, cracking his neck from side to side. Time to run. Sure, he had just hiked for almost thirteen miles, but he felt ansy to get things started, and had taken a half hour out to set up camp. He Started, looking around himself to make sure he would know how to get back before beginning. He took off, a steady pace coming easily to him as he stepped over logs, the flat, smooth earth under him moving beneath his feet. He came to a river, not slowing down but instead running up it, alongside it, looking down at his watch to see how far he had come. Two miles.
He turned back west, having jogged a little back the way he had come. He checked the sun, the trees, the earth, noticing some familiar looking trees from his small, one mile scouting trip the previous weekend. He wasn't in the mood to get lost, and had therefore checked on this place before coming. He was glad to have found it, and was glad for the solitude, but wouldn't lie and say a training partner, or even small amounts of company wouldn't be nice. He found his camp in short order, a chipmunk darting away quickly as he ran into the camp, only slightly winded. He wouldn't stop now. He rolled his shoulders, a large scar on his arm barely being seen on bottom of his right shoulder near the arm, the pain of its making still fresh in his mind, the scar moving up his shoulder and down across his back, stopping about two and a half feet down it. That was another story for another time, however, and he wouldn't contemplate it on his weekend away.
He got down, placing his hands shoulder width apart, the weight easily being supported by his large, strong arms. Down and up. One. Down and up. Two. Down and up. Three. Classic push ups. He did them slowly but surely, his muscles starting to slightly feel the burn after reaching fifty. Not done yet. Down and up. Down and Up. He came to his feet, a solid and strong one hundred under his belt. He rolled his shoulders once more. He walked to the center of the clearing, breathing deeply and smoothly as the day began to warm up. His only clear day for the weekend. He slid his right foot back smoothly, placing his left foot forward, slightly bent, his right fist clenched near his chin as his left was held a little further forward. He twisted his hips and torso, whipping around his right leg for a solid kick to his invisible partners head. He brought it back, doing it again and again, twenty times, getting the feel for it.
He reversed the position, this time his left leg back, and did twenty kicks that way. Then he ran for a tree, his mind working sporadically, taking whatever move came to his mind as he fought and struggled with his mental foe. He ran for a tree, taking two steps up it and spinning one hundred and eighty degrees to the left, a classic right footed Roundhouse to the head. Not a move he would generally use in combat, but good to work the muscles and to keep your mind refreshed and at both of they're maximums. He landed softly, his right leg forward, his body turned to the side. He wasted no time, standing to his feet and snapping out a right heel kick. He placed his foot, after the kick, down approximately two feet from his left and a little back, his hands opening up and facing outward, palms toward his enemy, hands slightly relaxed.
He began working defensive combos, blocking quickly and efficiently, his left hand blocking a punch, his right a knee, constantly moving, not just going through the motions but effectively fighting his mind, if such a thing were made sense to the reader. His mind worked quicker than his body could, and so the blows of his imaginary foes would always be above the capability of his motor functions. While to some, it may seem like he could easily block and guard his "foe", it was not so, his brain separating his material fists from his imaginary ones, so his foes, in a sense, were real. It was a technique taught to him by a martial artist his father had recommended, an older man, though graced with youth and flexibility. This technique, while difficult, worked both your body and mind, causing you to have a strength in both areas that your enemy didn't know you could possess.
He stopped, two hours in, a sheen of sweat pouring over his body. He grabbed the first water-bottle, slightly Luke-warm. It wasn't wise to drink Iced-water while your body was at such a peak of strain, your blood running hot and suddenly being introduced to it having been pronounced only "slightly dangerous." He drank half the bottle, gasping as he set it back on top of his cooler. He stepped over to a bare tree, the limbs strong but lifeless, grabbing the branch that was nearly a foot above his head. He gripped it do the back of his hands were on the same side of his face, opposite of how the classic pull-up was done. He brought himself up, breathing quickly and deeply as his muscles cried out. It felt amazing. It was Ecstasy for him, his mind constantly consumed by fighting and training, this session dedicated to himself, a relaxing way of working his body, no stress. Fifty chin-ups later, Damien released himself, hands on his hips, his body covered in dirt and sweat.
He laid down on his back, hands behind his head, feet planted. He used his stomach muscles to pull his body up, his elbows touching his thighs before he went back down, not letting his back fully lay out before coming back up into a sit-up. He did these quickly, not wanting to keep his mind constantly on it, instead wanting to move on to the fist work out. One hundred. He came to his feet, his body groaning in pain. He grabbed his water-bottle, taking another quick swig before placing it down again and stepping to the nearest tree. He held up his fists, elbows in, his right hand near his chin in a fist, his left hand out a little more as he rotated his arms at the elbows, keeping good circulation and air. Left punch. Bam. Right punch. Bam. Stiff jabs to the tree, the defiant wood shaking its leaves in protest at being used in such a way, or so it seemed to Damien.
He moved through one hundred jabs each arm, a full set of two hundred. He then worked on his hooks, not whipping back his arm into an over-exaggerated hay-maker, but keeping the hook close to his body, about twenty inches out In front of him, the twist of his torso and the close proximity to his body only adding to the effect and combination of both speed and power. He did another set of two hundred, one hundred each arm, before stepping back out into the clearing, and working for the next hour and a half on uppercuts, combo blows, judo and ju-jit-su throws, as well and quick take-downs and easily landed maneuvers. Four hours. He stopped, gasping as sweat poured from every possible pore in his body. He drank what was left of the first bottle, not wanting to water-log his body too much.
He stepped inside his tent, retrieving another small cooler that did have ice in it. He placed a small rag from his back inside for ten seconds, retrieving the cold item and applying it to his neck. Against what he would normally do, as it had been stated early with the water-bottles, but he needed a strong cool-down. It felt good, a small moan coming from his lips. He sat on a sleeping bag made for his comfort, a small flashlight to the left and a rifle in its case, just in the happen-stance he felt the need to hunt. He had a book, "Peace for the mind, war for the soul" by TJ Anvon, as well as a few apples and dried fruits. He looked down at his watch after a period of relaxation and book reading, sighing as he was three minutes late for his next set.
He stood, stretching his muscles before cracking his neck again. He was looking forward to it, and started right in, beginning again the first set he had done this morning. Four hours later, he was brutally exhausted, almost to the point of over-exertion but still able to move his aching limbs. He lay on the ground gasping, eyes taking in the now-fully viewable stars. He groaned, pushing himself to his feet and stumbling over to a tree, mustering up his strength to climb it halfway and view the world around him. It was amazing, the stars and moons casting a cold, Grey glare over the trees. He chuckled a little to himself, hardly believing he had time away. He thought a little about who he would want here if he had a choice. His thought his first option would be Tai Yang, a perfect opponent to pit himself against for training. But his thoughts wandered back to a blind female he had met on the beach, a person whose name he had forgotten but had heard plenty of, especially regarding a guy named Keith.
Damien wasn't without his stalker allies, he had one or two, and he just wished he could have a moment to offer his assistance to her, such as it was, and to possibly make a friend, which he had yet to do. Another would be that Principal, Katsumoto, or Perhaps the old Hircine Captain, Kyukaku. Again, both good training partners- the first one to beat the shit out of, the second one to simply train with. Damien didn't like this Shuya, and could tell they would be at odds in the future. He sighed, climbing down the tree and making his way back over to his tent. Eight o'clock. Time for shut-eye. Tomorrow would be a busy day.
And he would Enjoy every minute of it.
OOC(( If you want to Enter, you may, whether you be someone he doesn't know or a name he mentioned. i have no problem with it. If, after three days this goes un-posted in, I'll make my Next-day post. Forgive any grammatical errors, just know that i tried me best
))